Deceitful is the Serpent
by Seraphine Gearhardt
Summary: Scorpius wants Albus to see the faces of the men for whom he was named. The snake can't shed his scales. "You came this far," he whispered, his breath hot on Al's face. "Don't bitch out now."


**Writer's Note:  
** _ **For the sake of clarity, I should mention that this portrayal of the relationship between Albus and Scorpius is meant to loosely mirror that of Dumbledore and Grindelwald, thus it's not strictly romantic in a traditional sense, but could be grow to be. I'm having trouble deciding whether or not this is a complete story, however, so I'll mark it as 'in-progress' in case there's more to tell.  
Any critique/commentary welcome!**_

—

In spite of the many years he had spent dreading the possibility of being Sorted anywhere but Gryffindor, as his eyes fell on the glossy, white-gold curls of Scorpius Malfoy, Albus wondered, not for the first time, if Slytherin would have been so terrible after all. Scorpius had described his House's living quarters at length before. Albus imagined lounging on the black chaises some hour past midnight, the lake's eerie, emerald luminescence flooding the underground common room through the high arched windows. He couldn't deny there was a certain mystique about his friend's House, shrouded in all manner of mystery and dark secrets. Its proud history had an impressive effect on Scorpius, whose easy demeanor and roguish looks seemed to personify the essence of Slytherin.

"Do you doubt I could infiltrate Gryffindor Tower, Al?" he was saying, in his laziest drawl yet, not caring to lower his voice. "Three years we've been in this castle. The secrets I've unlocked would astonish you. Getting past the Fat Lady would be as easy as a wink and a bottle of chocolate liqueur."

"I'm sure you must be used to flashing your, er, charms to get your way, Scorpius," Al riposted, playfully cruel, "but I sincerely question whether the Fat Lady would be seduced by some skinny little thing with two hairs on his chin."

"Oh?" And now Scorpius did whisper, leaning dangerously close, his hands disappearing beneath their shared desk. "Then perhaps you'd simply tell me the password, if I touched you… _here—_!"

"Stop that!"

"Boys!" a squeaky voice reprimanded. "Less tongue-flailing, more wand-waving!"

"Sorry, Professor Flitwick!"

"Do you hear yourself?"

"Will you be quiet. I'll come, if it'll shut you up, you don't need to break into my dormitory. But I can't see why you care."

"You'll pardon me for wanting to do something nice for you."

"Oh, I'm sure it'll be very nice when Professor McGonagall drags us back to London by the scruff of our necks."

"No one will see us. You have your dad's cloak, don't you?"

—

It was chilly about the castle, and Al was grateful even for the Invisibility Cloak's flimsy extra layer. He moved cautiously, wary of both the living and the dead, and particularly of nosy portraits who liked to report to prefects. He was not accustomed to nightly ambulations, but he could always count on Scorpius to be a poor influence on his behavior. It had become increasingly difficult, over the years, to say no. For one reason or other.

The third floor corridor was empty when he arrived, save for the dark silhouette of a young boy standing near a sleeping marble gargoyle. He had his back against a wall and his arms folded casually across his bare chest. He'd donned nothing but gray trackies, to which Al feigned indifference. He had his wand between his teeth like some kind of horse bit, lit by a warm golden glow.

"Should you be so nonchalant about this?" Al whispered, adjusting the cloak about his shoulders.

Scorpius remained aloof as his friend's disembodied head materialized from the darkness.

"I would know if anyone were coming," he mumbled through the mouthful of wand.

"Spit that out."

"Yes, Mother."

"You weaseled the password out of some poor soul, I presume?"

"I don't recall mentioning anything about a password."

"The headmistress's office is always guarded by—"

Scorpius made a show of clearing his throat, and the monstrous gargoyle yawned to life as he tapped its ugly head with the tip of his wand. It glanced at them expectantly, as though awaiting some important news. It seemed to recoil somewhat as Scorpius raised his wand a second time, eyes closed, brows furrowed; the beads of sweat forming on his forehead shimmered by wandlight.

" _Imperio!_ " he roared at last, his voice low and clear. The gargoyle's face slumped, and it moved awkwardly aside to reveal a spiral stairway.

Albus could not see the horror on his own face, though he imagined what it must've looked like when Scorpius, who did not falter easily, seemed slightly put out.

"It's just a thing, isn't it?" he said, sounding almost as though he were attempting to convince himself. "It doesn't count if it's not a person."

"It's awful. It's wrong. How can you even…" He trailed off and turned to leave, to trudge back up to the seventh floor and pretend tonight had been a fever dream, when Scorpius's iron grip seized him by the arm and thrust him up against the wall.

"You came this far," he whispered, his breath hot on Al's face. "Don't bitch out now."

Al said nothing, but he hoped his expression conveyed sufficient contempt. He was reminded uncomfortably of a story his father had told him once about his own mother, Lily, who had cut all ties with a friend whist at Hogwarts whom she'd found meddling with Dark magic.

He then wondered, idly, whether his grandmother had harbored any feelings for her friend.

He allowed himself to be lead up the stairway, which finished on a small landing before an ornate woodworked door. They pushed past it, Al letting the cloak slither off his body, and came into the dimly lit, decidedly magnificent office of Minerva McGonagall, Headmistress of Hogwarts, with which Scorpius was well-acquainted, and Albus not at all.

The walls were adorned with a great deal of trophies and framed awards, largely related to the field of Transfiguration, and several medals and badges of honor for bravery and distinction in the Battle of Hogwarts. There were pictures of cats, old family photographs, and an impressive amount of tartan-patterned needlework. But what most awed Al were the gilded portraits of the school's previous headmasters and headmistresses, slumbering peacefully within their frames. Scorpius pressed a finger to his lips, to indicate that they should be silent, and led him to the bottommost row of portraits, wherein rested McGonagall's most recent predecessors, and Albus's namesakes.

Albus Dumbledore's silver beard rose and fell to the rhythm of deep, rumbling breaths, his eyelids fluttering beneath half-moon spectacles. To his right, the black-robed likeness of Severus Snape, a hook-nosed, shiny-haired man who, in striking contrast to Dumbledore, was still as death.

Al had not expected to be moved by the sight of the two men his father had named him after, both of whom were hailed as martyrs and heroes by the wizarding community, and thus he'd had reservations about going along with Scorpius's plan. He had, of course, seen several photographs, and had a fair image of them in his mind. But being here before them, so to speak, enchanted by the magic of Hogwarts, filled him with a sense of kinship and clarity he had not experienced before.

He dared another step forward, quite entranced, and nearly swore when Snape's fleshy eyelids shot open, his deep dark eyes boring into Al's skull.

A sharp intake of breath behind him told him Scorpius was echoing his thoughts. In seconds Snape would raise the alarm, rouse his fellow masters, and Professor McGonagall and old Mr. Filch would descend upon them before they could say 'Quidditch.'

Yet many moments passed and Severus Snape remained utterly silent, seeming almost as dead as he did whilst he slept, save for the smoldering fire in his beetle-black eyes. Al felt rooted in place, ensnared by that mad stare, which seemed to him like something covetous, possessive, and, very nearly, evil.

Then, after what felt like many lifetimes, the dark martyr moved beyond the edge of his portrait, and was gone.

Al shivered, drenched in a cold sweat, and would have collapsed under the numbness of his legs had Scorpius not rushed to his aid, setting him gingerly on a winged armchair.

"Too close," the Slytherin whispered, kneeling beside him. "You alright?"

Al half-sobbed in response, nearly inaudible. "I thought he might jump out and strangle me."

"You would have preferred that to being expelled," Scorpius teased. Al forced himself to smile. "I'm sorry," he went on," this played out a little differently in my head, but now I can't seem to think of how."

"It's okay, let's just grab the cloak and go. I don't wanna be around when he comes back."

"Well, so long as we're here…"

"What?"

"Come see."

They stole carefully across the carpeted floor so as not to stir any more of the tower's denizens. Al found himself being led once more, this time to a hidden little nook behind a bookcase in a dark corner of the circular office. It was starkly devoid of any embellishments, and in fact seemed a bit in disrepair, with paint peeling all around and a strong smell of moss and mildew. Scorpius held his wand aloft, shedding its golden light on the sole feature of the room, a lectern upon which rested a tattered, leather-bound tome.

The cover read, in faded, irregular script: _Secrets of the Darkest Art_.

"Scorpius…"

"I know what you're thinking, but my interest is purely academic."

"Was it purely academic when you imperiused that gargoyle?"

"That was different!"

"Was it?"

"We have a right to knowledge, otherwise what's the point of school! Did you know there are things they won't even teach us about? In the interest of a well-rounded education, I object in the strongest terms to boundaries on our curriculum. I'm sure the scholar in you would agree."

"Don't patronize me, Scorpius. If we're not being taught what's in that book, it's for a good reason."

"It's fear-mongering. Hogwarts prides itself on its Defense Against the Dark Arts studies, but we haven't a clue what we're defending ourselves from! Say there's another Voldemort one day. Do we want to be as unprepared as our parents were?"

"Take it and go, then, if you're not going to change your mind. What are you waiting for?"

Scorpius was silent for a brief moment, as though considering how best to proceed.

"Only someone who shares the sitting headmaster's House can remove a book from this lectern," he said slowly. "A relic of Rowena Ravenclaw, who trusted her students more than her colleagues."

The numbness in Al's legs returned, and very deliberately it spread to the rest of his body; it drained the blood from his face and choked the life from his throat more brutally than Severus Snape ever could. He could only stare blankly into Scorpius's eyes, the hunger in them now eerily familiar.

Then, in one swift motion, he plucked the tatty book from its lectern, his fingers chilled as they passed through an invisible barrier.

"I'll spare you the speech about how hurt and betrayed I feel," he said coldly, thrusting the tome into the other boy's hands, "but do feel free to go fuck yourself. I guess some snakes can't shed their scales."

"I need you, Al," Scorpius whispered, his voice solemn. "I wish I could explain everything right now, but I promise you, whatever happens from now on, it'll be for the greater good."

From within his fancy frame, the twinkly-eyed likeness of Albus Dumbledore looked on the boys sadly, until the office door clicked shut behind them.


End file.
